I stopped at the door, took a deep breath, and asked without looking back, “Do you know any good carpenters who aren’t too talkative?” Don Malaquías took a while to answer. “There’s Lorenzo Bautista, a widower.”
He lives alone near the bridge. He’s a serious man, doesn’t get involved in gossip. I thanked him and left. The wind blew the red dust from the road. In the distance, the mountains were shrouded in mist, and I knew, deep in my soul, that I had just taken the first step down a path of no return.
I found Lorenzo Bautista. Three days later I went to the old wooden bridge that crossed the peaceful river, a small river that in the dry season became almost a trickle of water between the stones.
Her house stood on flat land, surrounded by banana trees and a large guava tree laden with ripe fruit. It was a simple house, but well-maintained. The walls were whitewashed, the roof without holes, and the door firmly in its frame.
It was clear this was the home of someone who knew how to work with his own hands. He was in the yard sawing a thick board supported by two sawhorses. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders, short gray hair, and an unshaven beard.
He wore patched trousers and a raw cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hands were large, calloused, and covered in small cuts and resin stains. When he saw me arrive, he stopped working and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm.
“Good afternoon,” he said, his voice hoarse but polite. “Good afternoon,” I replied, stopping at a safe distance. “Are you Lorenzo? I’m Don Malaquías from the store. He said you’re a carpenter, that you do good work, and that you’re not one to gossip.”
He nodded slowly, studying me with those tired eyes of someone who has seen a lot. It depends on the job. It’s a house, I said, or what’s left of one up there on the dry grass hill.
I need you to see if it can be repaired. He was silent for a moment, then put down the saw, picked up an old rag, and wiped his hands. When? Early tomorrow morning, if you can.
I can. There was no more conversation. I thanked him and went home. On the way, I stopped near a stream. I sat on a smooth rock and watched the water flow by.
It was a pleasant, calming sound. The sun beat down on the leaves of the trees, and the light was tinged with shadow. I thought of Lorenzo, of his face, his calm, unhurried way, his gaze free of distrust.
There was something about him that made me feel safe, or perhaps just less alone. The next day he showed up early. He came on foot, carrying a sack on his back filled with tools and a wooden measuring tape.
I had already cleaned the house better, removed the old straw, swept the floor, but the squalor of the place still screamed. Don Lorenzo entered slowly, observing everything carefully. He tapped on the wattle and daub wall, tested the roof beams, and knelt down to examine the floor.
He didn’t say anything for a long time, he just paced, looked, measured, touched. I stood in the doorway with my arms crossed, feeling my heart beat faster. What if he said it was beyond repair, what if he said it was better to tear it all down?
Finally, he returned to the door and stopped in front of me. “He can be saved,” he said, “but it’s going to take work.” I took a deep breath. The relief was so great it almost made me faint.
“How much?” I asked. My voice came out lower than I intended. “It depends. If you just want to patch the holes and reinforce the roof, that’s one price. If you want to do things properly, put in a real door, fix the walls, level the floor, that’s another.”
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